


The Theme This Week

by compo67



Series: The Chicago Verse [141]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Banter, Bottom Dean Winchester, Brotherly Love, Children, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Genderfluid Character, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Dean Winchester, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, New Friends, Old Married Couple, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Poetry, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Therapy, Vulnerability, Vulnerable Dean Winchester, classic lines, neighborhood bliss, soothing balm on your beaten fandom soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: There’s a line out the door at La Michoacana on the corner of Blue Island and 18th.For whatever reason, on a hot day in August, Dean stands in this line. (His dedication to supporting this small business should be noted.) Not only does he vow to buy enough paletas to stock up for a while and avoid future lines, but he vows to pay for the person behind him.Just as long as the line freaking moves.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: The Chicago Verse [141]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/46578
Comments: 34
Kudos: 72





	The Theme This Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lochinvar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/gifts), [FaeGentry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeGentry/gifts), [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts), [rieraclaelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieraclaelin/gifts), [Hazelsun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazelsun/gifts).



> tcv does not follow canon, so there are no spoilers here. but there is plenty of classic Wincest things: banter, a Richard Siken poem, and desserts.

*

**

***

There’s a line out the door at La Michoacana on the corner of Blue Island and 18th. 

For whatever reason, on a hot day in August, Dean stands in this line. (His dedication to supporting this small business should be noted.) Not only does he vow to buy enough paletas to stock up for a while and avoid future lines, but he vows to pay for the person behind him. 

Just as long as the line freaking  _ moves _ .

He left therapy five minutes ago and hobbled over here as quickly as his left knee would allow. The increase in temperature and humidity has done him no fucking favors in this past week. Who the hell decided it would be a great idea to buy a house on what used to be a gigantic swamp?

Dean heaves a sigh and shakes his head. His name is one of two on the deed to a three bedroom, two bathroom house in the Chicago neighborhood called Pilsen.

Eh. It’s not  _ that  _ bad. 

And what with climate change, everywhere is gonna feel like Chicago in August anyway.

_ Happy thoughts. Think  _ happy  _ thoughts _ . 

Did he not just spend a hundred bucks to sit with someone for sixty minutes to drill that into him?  _ Radical acceptance, Dean _ . Mindfulness. Nonjudgmental stance. All that psychology crap has got to be worth something if he keeps going back to it every week.

Actually, he’s going twice a week now.

He’d use Sam’s insurance for sessions, but cash under the table is more his style. This also circumvents any depressing conversations about how he only has six years left to qualify for Medicare.

Fucking  _ Medicare. _

There’s a lot riding on these paletas. They’ll need to simultaneously cool him down  _ and  _ solve all of his internal and external problems, all while satisfying his voracious sweet tooth. 

He’d usually skip the line and find a paletero man near the house—Don Montenegro and Don Julio work their block—but impulse and avoidance led him to La Michoacana. The sooner he goes home, the sooner he has to face reality. Or, in other words, Sam.

Sam can’t convince him to trust doctors, but he did convince him to double up on the couch sessions… for now. Dean knows he will eventually  _ have _ to go see a doctor, possibly more than one doctor, but that doesn’t mean he has to follow through on it right the fuck away. So he’s got sleep issues. Nightmares. Intrusive thoughts. Flashbacks. Moments of time where the line between reality and the fucked up shit in his head gets real fucking blurry.

And there’s no one around to clarify the shit that comes out of his head in the middle of the night. He can’t roll over and ask Sam, “Hey, did Dad actually find out about us after you left for Stanford and torture me half to death or am I just being sensitive?”

It’s like he needs a Ouija board for his own melon.

He should buy a honeydew paleta. No. He should buy  _ two _ honeydew paletas.

A horrifically rusted Buick LeSabre rolls past a stop sign, blasting indiscernible music, ripping Dean away from his paleta revelation and post-therapy thoughts. 

Why didn’t he bring his headphones?

He switches his cane from his right hand to his left, then pinches the bridge of his nose. Whoever or whatever is holding up the line better have the excuse of a lifetime. He’s had Costco lines on a Sunday move faster than this.

_ Is that… a strange thing to say for him? _

_ Costco lines on a Sunday? _

Has it really been a decade since they’ve moved here? Could his civilian anniversary be part of what’s throwing him off lately? He just never expected to live this long. Or live  _ this  _ kind of life. Of all the scenarios for Retirement— _ capital fucking R _ —he hadn’t pictured this one.

It’s not Pilsen that’s surprising.  _ Well. Okay. Maybe a little _ . Most of the connections he’s remained in contact with expected him and Sam to retire to the bunker or some farm in the middle of nowhere. Someone even had the audacity to suggest that the Winchesters should move to hell’s asshole, god’s waiting room, America’s wang—Florida. Fucking  _ Florida _ . 

He will shovel snow from fifteen blocks of sidewalk in a blizzard before moving their asses to Florida.

No. No,  _ this  _ is better.

So why can’t he just heal?

A child belonging to the young mother two people ahead in line walks up to him. 

She wears a white romper, the sleeves trimmed in lace, paired with bright pink sneakers. Her pigtails swish back and forth with every confident step. He figures she’s about five or six, going on forty.

“Stop,” she commands. She points a finger right at his heart. “Stop being sad.”

Did this little girl sit in on his therapy session and he somehow didn’t realize it? Or is the Chicago Public School system starting to work “How to Approach Old White Men On the Street and Accuse Them of Being Sad” into the curriculum?

Both are entirely plausible.

Before Dean left for therapy this afternoon, he spent the entire morning with his ass plastered into a giant beanbag chair, listening to Rush. He played “Tom Sawyer” on repeat to the point where the lyrics are more than likely etched into his blood cells. Sam forced him to put on headphones. 

Dean looks down at his new, pigtailed therapist and blinks.

Then he frowns. 

“I’m not sad,” he says, with a slight rumble to his voice. “I’m just… in a funk.”

This kind of funk happens all the time. It’s not even a funk, really, it’s more of a setting—a chaotic, tumultuous place for way too many emotions. Kind of like if someone were to set a Macy’s on fire during the Christmas season.

The Small One peers up at him. She can smell fear. Probably.

“Stop being sad,” she reiterates, this time folding her arms over her chest. “It’s not good.”

It  _ isn’t  _ good. He’s had an upset stomach for a week, rendering him incapable of enjoying anything with more seasoning than anemic salt and weak-ass black pepper. But not today. Today, he’s taking charge of his gut and forcing it to comply with his desire for frozen dairy on a stick. 

The mother of The Small One darts over. She was on the phone when The Small One made the trek to Dean. They look incredibly similar, as if The Small One were just a copy. Cinnamon hair, lively brown eyes, both on the petite side. Even their outfits are a bit similar—Maria wears her hair in a French braid, and a white dress with a lace trim, sunflowers embroidered on the hem. 

She scoops up the small one and looks at Dean. “I’m so sorry. Terribly sorry. She’s a very curious person.”

_ Person _ . Not kid, kiddo, child, or clone. An interesting word choice. 

Dean’s right eyebrow raises a touch. “I can see that. We were chatting.”

“He’s sad, but not frowny sad,” The Small One reports, squirming. “Mama. Put me down.”

Did his therapist follow him after their session and transform into The Small One? Because part of their session was about Dean and the permanent frown stuck on his face lately. He’s been a  _ peach _ in terms of company and he knows it. Sam tossed him out of the house yesterday to mow the lawn, but the arthritis in Dean’s knee decided against it so he laid on the front lawn for an hour. He laid there, like a slug, and watched the clouds pass overhead. He knew peace until the Chávez kids decided to lie next to him and ask a million and five questions about clouds.

What even  _ is  _ his life?

“You know,” Dean murmurs, shrugging his shoulders. “I could use help picking out paletas to take home.”

The Small One manages to wriggle her way back onto the sidewalk. She huffs and smooths out the newly formed wrinkles in her romper. Yesterday, Dean could barely gather the will to change out of his sweatpants and into jeans. 

Mom smiles and pats The Small One on the head. “We happen to be paleta experts.” She extends her right hand. “I’m Maria. This is my very serious colleague and daughter.” 

“Sorina,” says The Small One. She curtsies. 

Dean clears his throat and leans against his cane. “Rina, you’re unreal.”

“Sorina,” The Small One corrects, a prominent pout on her lips.  _ “S-O-R-I-N-A.” _

Shots fired. He was just murdered in cold blood by a five year old. 

“Well. Uh. My apologies, Sorina. I’m Dean.” He extends his hand out to her.

She slips her small hand into his and gives a brief, fluttering squeeze. “What made you sad?”

The line moves three steps forward. Maria and Sorina give up their place in line to move ahead with Dean. They’re getting somewhere, literally and figuratively. These three steps place them underneath the awning of Blue Island Books. The sidewalk doesn’t feel as oppressively hot here.

Maria touches Sorina’s shoulder. “Draga, this might not be a good time for Mr. Dean to answer your questions.”

Dean shrugs. “If not now, when?” 

He tries to project a sense of tranquility to Maria and Sorina. He won’t say anything inappropriate or unleash traumatic shit on a five year old, no matter how mature she acts. 

_ Keep it together _ . 

He makes direct eye contact with Sorina, who unwaveringly returns it.

“When you get to be old like me,” he says, his tone as neutral as possible, “sometimes you don’t feel like yourself.”

The line moves two steps forward. A breeze flutters past; leaves and errant pamphlets spin around. Squeaking wheels from a nearby elotero cart mixes in with bits and pieces of Spanish from the radio playing on the bookstore’s windowsill. He recognizes the song that plays immediately after—Cien Años, sung by none other than Pedro Infante.

It is one of the most depressing Spanish songs in existence, which is saying a lot, considering the wide catalog of depressing songs produced by Latinx musicians. If he ever meets Vicente Fernandez in person, he’s gonna get one autograph for Mrs. Martinez, one autograph for himself, and then a selfie before he socks him one right in the kisser. How  _ dare _ ‘Chente make him feel things. Things that make him ugly cry. Things that require a box of tissues whenever Dean listens to  _ Un Azteca en la Azteca _ .

These are natural feelings, according to Mrs. Martinez.

“I love this song,” Maria sighs, with a shy smile. “I just wish I knew what he was singing. My Spanish isn’t that good just yet.”

Back in the present, Dean scrubs at his chin. “Oh, it’s about the usual. You know. The profound ache of your one true love passing by you with complete indifference.” 

In spite of his hesitation, he continues. Mostly because Maria doesn’t look bored or put off by the information.

He motions with his hands as he explains. “You see, aside from being a phenomenal singer, Pedro Infante was one of the greatest actors from the Golden Age of Mexican cinema. In 1954, three years before his untimely death, he did this movie, I forget the title of it, and sang this song in a scene.”

Clearing his throat, Dean shrugs. “But what do I know?”

Maria gives a light, clear laugh. She shakes her head. “Obviously quite a bit, Mr. Dean. I’m that way about Romanian folk music. I know way too much, quite frankly, can never find anyone interested in listening—even Sorina.” 

Sorina tugs at the hem of Dean’s black t-shirt. She says nothing about the song, music, the state of Mexican cinema, or the world at large.

“I knew you from before,” Sorina chirps. “And you aren’t like that anymore. This is better.”

Dean blinks once, twice, and blurts out, “What?”

They all three enter La Michoacana, the air heavy with the smell of sweet ice cream and buttered elotes. The number of people packed into the store and the tinny radio broadcasting a soccer game makes it more difficult for Dean to hear anything—yet another factor to his recent sour mood. Lately, if there are two different sounds playing simultaneously, it all washes out to something more like the adults in Charlie Brown. And he’s always hated Charlie Brown.

Maria intervenes once again, a plea for understanding in her eyes. 

“Sorina just turned five last week. I thought I would get her a doll house, something handcrafted, like the one I had as a girl. But she asked me for berets and a book in French.” 

“Cherry berets,” Sorina clarifies, brow furrowed. “Cherries, Mama.” 

_ O-kay. _

Dean stands up straighter, shoulders back. “Right. Uh.” He scratches his head and looks at Maria. “You said Romanian folk music?”

The line’s brief momentum forward dies as the people two spots ahead of them put in an order large enough to require assistance from Pablito, the older gentleman who typically oversees inventory in the back. Could these customers not have called ahead?  _ For fuck’s sake.  _ From Dean’s place in line at the back of the store, he can already tell that the number of mamey paletas diminishes with every passing second. He  _ might _ get lucky and get an apricot paleta, which would be comparable in flavor, but that’s settling.

Doing the same, Maria stands on her tiptoes and leans forward. She sighs with relief.

“They still have watermelon.” She pats The Small One’s shoulder. “And I saw plenty of bubblegum.”

“Pick me up, please. I want to see.”

Maria obliges and speaks to Dean. “My grandfather was a violinist. He escaped the War in the Old Country, came here, and brought the music with him. Have you heard any Romanian folk music?”

“Can’t say that I have. I’ve heard Swedish folk music.” Strange case. Spirit of a Swedish yodeler. A hockey rink outside of Boise, Idaho. Two days after Sam’s fortieth birthday.  _ Weird _ . 

“Oh, dear,” Maria laughs. “Well, this is a tad different than that, though I’m sure the Swedes produce fine music. There’s a Folkloric concert at the Chicago Cultural Center in the Loop next week. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

Her eyes match the sincerity in her voice as she offers the invitation.

He doesn’t sense any flirtation lying behind or beneath her words, only kindness, which does nothing to squash his suspicion or inherent distrust. Who the hell walks around in this world just being…  _ kind? _ Like, a good person? Like, a decent human being? 

Pablito must have hauled ass—the line finally,  _ finally _ moves again.

Dean ends up buying a total of fifteen paletas. He squirrels away twelve to race home before they melt into oblivion. The remaining three he divides up between himself, Maria, and The Small One. At the register, Pablito’s wife, Ximena, gives him a discount. Whether she gives him the discount for buying more than twelve, for fixing up her daughter’s 1999 Honda Accord, or for  _ almost _ qualifying as a senior, he’ll never know.

Everyone behind the counter at  _ La Mich _ says hi to him and sends their greetings to Sam.

It’s odd and yet perfectly normal.

Maybe odd-and-perfectly-normal is the best he could have hoped for in his lifetime.

He unwraps the bubblegum paleta for The Small One and leans down to hand it to her. She thanks him, her small hands careful as they achieve a smooth handoff. 

“Before I take off,” Dean says, unwrapping his mamey paleta, “tell me more about the Romanian experience.”

Maria’s eyes light up and take on a shine of nostalgia. Her expression goes soft as she basks in a flood of memories that come to her. He recognizes this expression because Sam gets the same look on his mug whenever they cautiously talk about the more positive memories of their past. 

“I suppose,” Maria starts. “I suppose it might be like any experience here in Chicago. Oh.” She looks at the plastic bag full of paletas in Dean’s right hand. “Your paletas are going to melt.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. One sec.” 

Dean ducks back into  _ La Mich _ and Ximena makes space for his bag in the cooler closest to the register.

He returns, chomping on the last of his first paleta. 

“Okay. Now I’ve got a few.”

The Small One asks for a napkin. Maria procures one from her purse, along with a wet wipe, which The Small One needs no help utilizing. 

“Let’s see, well I told you about my grandfather, Charlie. Now, among his many talents, he was also a Professor of History at the University of Chicago and a professional gambler.”

“A gentleman and a scholar,” Dean quips.

“Yes,” Maria laughs, clear as a bell. “He was something else, my Papa. Now, he loved the Cubs, so you could always find him on the bleachers at Wrigley. You have no idea how  _ un _ surprised we were when one day a few years ago, we got a call from the Chicago PD to please come pick up my eighty-three year old Papa because they caught him placing bets and collecting money once again.”

Another, longer line forms outside of  _ La Mich _ . Dean finishes his paleta and tucks the stick into his back pocket. He motions for Maria to continue. 

“C’mon,” he prompts. “I’m taking notes on how to be that badass.” 

Maria beams and finishes her paleta. She kneels for a moment to make sure The Small One hasn’t dropped her paleta and subsequently started cheering for the ants on the sidewalk to accept this gift from the heavens and conquer it. Not that Dean’s done anything like that. Ever. 

“Papa taught us all how to play cards before we rode our first bicycles. He’d say—” Maria takes on a thick Romanian accent— “‘What do you need a bicycle for, eh? You need to get out of a pickle, this is why God gave you two feet. Now cards, this is why God gave you brains.’” 

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah,  _ yeah _ .”

“It’s true, too,” Maria chirps. “When I was growing up, I could solve any argument with a game of cards. Get out of any punishment by challenging my father to a game. But don’t let me talk up the men too much. Papa never, ever crossed Nana Sara.”

“Oh, no one ever crosses the Nanas,” Dean says, nodding and looking over to The Small One. “Am I right, or am I right?”

The Small One appears to be on the verge of rolling her eyes, but refrains from actually doing it because “manners” and “discipline” and stuff. 

Maria, on the other hand,  _ does _ roll her eyes. “We know  _ all _ about not crossing Nana Sara. The woman makes the most beautiful slow-roasted brisket on the planet. But you make one move out of line and you’re scrubbing floors from morning to night.”

Dean waves away the mention of punishment. “Nuh-uh. Tell me about the food.” 

“We could be here all day.”

“Does it look like I have anywhere I gotta be?”

“Just being mindful of your time.”

“Don’t,” he says, with a small laugh. “I mean, unless you see a six-foot-something Sasquatch marching up the street. Then I gotta go. But we’re good. So brisket.”

“Such a brisket. A brisket you could only dream of.”

“Oh, I’m there.”

“With potatoes, of course.”

“Well,  _ yeah _ .”

“Tsimmes—that’s a sweet carrot dish with prunes. Sounds awful, but trust me, you miss it if it’s not on the table. Then there’s noodle puddings. Mamaliga—kind of like a cornmeal pudding, think of polenta. Then you have your homemade brined pickles, roasted eggplant with garlic, blintzes, pickled herring, rye bread, and to top it all off, homemade strudel.”

Dean taps his cane on the sidewalk. “I’ll take three of each, thank you.”

“Nana would get a kick out of you.”

“Hey, I fall in real nice with the seventies-plus crowd.”

“I can see it.” Maria smiles and sighs. “We were always the loudest neighbors, and aggressively friendly. Whenever the family would get together, you knew there’d be a good mix of storytellers, con artists, and grifters. But everyone cared. They cared enough to make the kids cherry cordials so we could feel fancy. Or take us to baseball games and muscle their way into getting us autographs all because they knew a friend of a friend who knew a guy.”

Maria gives a shaky laugh, takes a tissue out of her purse, and quickly dabs at her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs. “We just lost Papa a few years ago. And more of my uncles since then. It’s like, little by little, the Old Guard is turning in and I’m not entirely sure who will replace them. I want her to grow up with the same memories. The same fondness for a group of mensches playing cards with the Cubs game on in the background.”

The Small One and Maria make eye contact.

Dean looks on, curious. How many kids make direct eye contact with their parents like  _ that _ ?

But then...

He feels it.

It’s a hug. Not a rib-crushing hug. Not a full force, squeeze for five minutes kind of hugs. But a gradual one. The kind that takes its time. One of those that people wait for while they say goodbye for the fifteenth time on the way out the door. The flavor of having a plastic bag full of Tupperware packed to the brim with leftovers for days. It’s the variety of hug that requires both people to lean in and meet halfway. 

It’s the kind of hug Sam gives Dean in the wintertime, right before Dean goes out to clear the driveway and sidewalks. 

That type of patient hug that comes just after Sam finishes fussing with Dean’s scarf, jacket, hat, and gloves. 

Holy shit, he feels good.

His shoulders relax. Muscle by muscle, his body releases a hefty amount of the tension that gripped it.

He meets The Small One’s gaze. 

And he nods.

Game recognizes game.

Later, Dean arrives home. He stashes the paletas into the freezer, taking care to hide two in his emergency reserve. He takes out a Tupperware marked  _ Pollo Con Mole _ and leaves it in the sink to defrost for a while.

He leans against the kitchen counter and eats his second paleta of the day—red currant.

Uncle Albert was a typewriter repairman. Uncle Saul sewed fur hats. Harry was the family’s first medical doctor. Maria is the first single mother, the first female college graduate, and the first woman in the family to take over Uncle Arnold’s Romanian Kosher Sausage Company, there on Clark Street in Rogers Park.

Of course, Uncle Arnold was also an electrical engineer, but he loved a good pastrami.

Why not open a kosher butcher shop? Why not play the violin every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine? Why not make brisket the old fashioned way? Why not make mole in big batches, portion it out, and give most of it away to everyone on the block?

Why not duck back into  _ La Mich _ and pay for the paletas of everyone left standing in line for the rest of the day? 

The kitchen could use some sprucing up. Maybe a new backsplash. Subway tiles this time. And it’s definitely time to upgrade the fridge. He could ask the Sasquatch, who looms over every appliance known to man, to haul it out to the curb. He’ll frame it as exercise. 

What was the theme in therapy this week?

Sam calls out from his office. “Dean?” 

“In the kitchen, Sammy.”

The sound of footsteps so similar to his own echoes through their quiet surroundings.

“Hey,” Sam says, eyes making quick work to determine Dean’s mood, emotions, wants, and needs. “Everything go okay?”

Why not grab Sam by the flannel and pull him in for a sweeping, sweet, slightly sloppy kiss?

Emotions hit Dean in a different way now from how they did years and years ago. Instead of an immediate reaction, he often pauses, contemplates, and  _ then _ acts. He goes about his routine in a simple, methodical way and prefers not to be disturbed while doing it. The majority of his time he dedicates to absorbing information, whether it’s music from an album he picked up, a podcast about Roman emperors, or chit-chat at the corner store with the regulars.

Dean maintains his hands spread over Sam's waist, his touch a translation of desire and attraction. 

Decades. Hundreds of thousands of miles. Incalculable sacrifices. 

The mystery, the song, and them.

It stays the same. 

He leads Sam out of the kitchen, down the hallway, past the office and the guest bedroom, and into their room—the one room in the whole house where their shadows overlap the most.

“You’re in such a good mood. What happened?”

“I’m trying to make out with you, Sam.”

“Yes, I know. But…”

“Butt.”

“Let go of that.”

“Hell no, it’s  _ mine _ .”

“Oh yeah? I don’t see your name on it.”

“Now  _ that’s  _ an idea.”

“I’m not one hundred percent serious, but if I get your name tattooed on my ass, I expect the same from you.”

“Sure, why not?”

“You’re serious?”

“About as serious as trying to make out with you right now.”

“You’re doing a great job.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“They offered the tenure position to Jaxxon.”

“What? The penis tie dude?”

“He didn’t have a penis tie.”

“You need glasses, Sammy, because that was a schlong tie.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Imagine spending all that money to go to Harvard for a fancy law degree and not knowing how to tie a tie in a non-penis shape.”

“You’re missing the point here.”

“No, no. I got the point. Does he wear ties to class? Does it swing back and forth?”

“Quit it.”

“You’re laughing.”

“At your face!”

“It’s a good looking face. And  _ I _ know how to tie a goddamn tie.”

“You certainly do.”

“Remember when I taught you how to tie one?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it? Middle school dance?”

“Seventh grade. Nebraska City Middle School. Sadie Hawkins dance.”

“Oh yeah, that one chick asked you out.”

“Karen.”

“You were so nervous. It was cute.”

“C’mere.”

“ _ Yes _ .”

“Hmm. Hold on.”

“But you  _ finally _ stopped talking.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“So?”

“And you’re in a good mood.”

“I’m trying here.”

Sam’s eyebrows embark on a journey north. “And you think we’re not gonna talk about your sudden good mood?”

Dean’s eyebrows reach for each other in mutual support as he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was trying to sex you up. Can we talk later?”

“You want to tap this ass, you’re gonna talk.”

“Blackmail, really?”

“And why did it take you so long to get home after therapy?”

“Oh  _ God _ .”

“And don’t think that I don’t know the freezer is nothing but paletas. You’re supposed to be avoiding dairy. Do you want diabetes?”

“Yes, Sam. I want diabetes. It’s a fetish. Deal with it.”

“Are you having an affair with a paletero?”

“If I were, I’d invite you to be a third.”

“Thank you.”

Dean lies down on their bed. He makes their bed every morning, without fail, and this morning was no exception. Yes, he may be in a funk. Yes, he may not wear jeans as often anymore because life is too short to deal with buttons. Yes, he’s behind on laundry and what the fuck is the point of ironing anything anymore? But he makes the bed.

His therapist calls it his grounding activity.

Maybe it’s also his grounding place.

It’d be better if it were, right now, his  _ grinding _ place, but alas.

He tucks his arms behind his head and closes his eyes. The first image in his mind waves at him—Sammy about to go to his first school dance. The wrinkled, ill-fitting suit Dean liberated from a thrift store with the money he made from a job still brings back memories he prefers to set aside.

_ Talk to me. _

“I met The Small One today.”

The mattress creaks as Sam lies down beside him. The angle of Dean’s ribs was made for Sam’s arm to rest against. 

_ Show me _ .

“You know I can’t do that.”

_ Try. Tell me more.  _

“She’s five. Pigtails. The whole nine yards. Thinks I shouldn’t be sad anymore.”

_ Adorable _ .

“Yeah. She was with her mom and we got to talking.”

_ You made friends today. _

“I did, yeah.”

_ I like Maria’s dress. _

“It was nice. But she’s a Cubs fan.”

_ Oh lord. _

“Sam?”

_ Dean? _

“Would you fuck me?”

**_What?_ **

“Please. I don’t wanna repeat it. Would you?”

_ I… if that’s what you want. _

“Yeah. I mean. As long as you’re okay with it.”

_ I think I am. _

“Nah, you gotta tell me you’re sure.”

_ It might take me longer to get hard. _

“Likewise.”

_ Uh. Ahem. Well. Also. I’m not that small. _

“Brag about it later.”

_ Pft. I just don’t want to hurt you? _

“I doubt it, but if you did, I’d let you know. Funkytown.”

_ That works. I do happen to feel kinda butch lately. _

“Noted. You fixed the garbage disposal last week. Very butch.”

_ You thought me fixing the disposal was butch? _

“Super butch.”

_ And you don’t mind me either way? _

“Manicure Sam and Mr. Fix It Sam? I’m all in.”

_ I didn’t go for the tenure job, but I think Sally deserved it more. Jaxxon’s fine, sure, but Sally has twice the experience. I wonder if the committee hesitated on her because she’s an older transwoman.  _

“Who do I need to gank?”

_ No one just yet. It’s just part of what I notice or think about now. And I think that’s a good thing. I started E to feel more balanced. I felt so… caged.  _

I know.

_ Now I feel better.  _

“Your hair’s softer.”

_ Yeah. Same with my skin. I don’t want my chest to change. I like it how it is. My ass though? That was a surprise. _

“Trust me when I say that I’ve noticed.”

_ I’m thinking maybe I’ll keep it up for another six months, then taper and see how I do from there. _

“Good.”

_ Back to your request. Paletas inspired this or…? _

Eyes open, Dean turns his head to meet Sam’s eyes. The wrinkles around Sam’s eyes smoothed out over the year he’s been taking the little pink pill. Sam’s facial hair didn’t diminish, though he goes longer without needing to shave than before. That part, Sam doesn’t mind. Dean doesn’t either. Less little hairs to clean off the sink.

At the beginning of the hormone journey, Dean worried endlessly about the outcomes, the changes, and Sam’s overall well-being. He had nightmares about Sam getting harassed or being unhappy with the results. Every single time he turned all that worry around in his head, it was like a cheese grater against his brain.

Did his worry spill over onto Sam? 

Dean’s voice filters out in a rumble.

“I know you think Dad did something to me after you left. I know you think he found out and everything went sideways. But he didn’t find out. I burned that cassette two nights after you left.”

In Chicago, trees grow quite tall and often near power lines.

Instead of chopping the entire tree down, the Bureau of Forestry for the City of Chicago trims only the branches. Hundreds of thousands of trees continue to grow this way—up and around electric currents. They adapt. They thrive. 

They ain’t whole trees.

But they have an advantage.

“Maria wanted to know what my family was like. She told me all about hers. I said my dad was in the military, it broke him, and I lived with those broken pieces. I told her I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you. Dad always thought we were a little too close. But all I wanted was to be with you flyin’ down the freeway.” 

He looks at the ceiling, the very ceiling he painted last year, when they went through room by room and decided to switch things up. 

“We split, right? You went to college. I went with my dad to work who-the-heck-knows in whoever-cares places. I played pool. I perfected poker. Life sucked. Dad and I hustled together, got drunk together, hungover together, and slept in the car together. He was a hustler. I was the muscle. When he’d go off and do shit on his own, I liked pretending I was with you on campus. I bought a textbook from a junk shop and carried it around with me for a while. I read the whole thing. Can’t tell you what it was about, but I can tell you I left it in the sun too long on drives and it got all yellow.”

Yellow. Ceilings. Fires. 

“When I got hungry, I fell back on shit I used to do as a snot-nosed kid. If I couldn’t pull enough together after a few days and the plastic maxed out, then I’d find some guy. You know the type. They always have that look. Like if you touch ‘em, your fingers would get greasy. No kissing. No lights on. Cash up front and always from behind.”

_ Dean _ .

“Don’t. It’s okay. We’re working on it. On the couch. Twice a week. I just wanted paleta right after today.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth turn into a brief smile. 

“It’s funny to me, because I’m not ashamed of it. Sometimes it was useful. Sometimes it was just a job. I’ve had worse jobs, I think. And how long ago was this, you know? Long, long time ago. I don’t go hungry now. I don’t pull Dad out of the bathtub because he fell asleep there drunk anymore. I grew up. I did some shit, met some people, went a bit overboard with the demonic stuff, helped save the world, and, most importantly, I got you to quit smoking.”

_ Yes, yes you did. _

“So you know. I didn’t tell Maria  _ all  _ of this stuff. A good chunk of it. Told her how I quit my job, you quit your job, and we bought a house here. Told her how I wanna add a second story to the house, but I hate stairs and you’d just fill it up with books. You got that ring on your finger and I got mine. Can’t go anywhere in this town without someone asking me to tell you they said hi. Stop for tacos? ‘Say ‘hi’ to Sam.’ Stop for groceries? ‘Say ‘hi’ to Sam.’ It’s a good problem to have. And you know what? I don’t gotta ask anyone for money now. If I want to spend three hundred bucks on paletas for complete strangers—boom. Done.”

_ That’s a lot of paletas. _

“No such thing.”

_ Why didn’t you tell me? _

“Because there’s only so much tragic backstory we can handle at a time, Sammy.”

_ Don’t joke. _

“Who’s joking? It’s true. It is what it is. Or it was what it was. And now you know.”

_ What else do I need to know? _

“Stick around,” Dean laughs. “Find out.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He huffs, which causes a few strands of his hair to flutter. With the greatest care, Sam runs a hand through Dean’s hair. Their eyes lock. 

Leaning down, Sam kisses Dean.

It feels like the first time. Dean follows each emotion. Desperation. Relief. Overwhelming  _ joy _ because the one person in the entire universe that matters, thinks  _ he _ matters in return.

Sam’s voice, which may as well be his own, stretches over him like a blanket.

_ You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.  _

The first kiss accelerates into something stronger, infinite, and rough. Less like red currants and more like a lick of salt. Every bite, nip, gasp, groan—it all belongs to them. Every reaction serves as a devoted offering and an opportunity to bleed out pure avarice. 

Their home preserves a sense of long term security.

Their bedroom provides privacy and comfort.

_ And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.  _

Their mattress sustains the curve of Dean’s spine and the tilt of his hips.

An electric current flows both ways, through fingertips, shapely lips, and miles and miles of broad, bewitching muscle. Past fabric, beyond clothing, their two forms tangle, twist, and turn together. Close is never close enough. 

Sam spreads over him, a sunset.

Dean arches into him, a sunrise.

_ You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling… _

The muscles, tendons, and ligaments in Dean’s thighs conduct a different melody of motion. Sam dips into the space, his own movements straddling the line between hesitation and excitement. Slot, slip, sink. The sheets and comforter around them remain a cool, rippling surface. 

Flushed, Dean tips his head back and groans the second Sam bites down on a tender section of his throat. Each edged incisor threads needles through the chambers of Dean’s heart. He imagines the rush of blood from his chest to his cock as a smooth, crimson crest. 

_...but he reaches over and he touches you... _

Lube, warm and slick, makes Sam’s skilled fingers glide. His fingertips trace the outline of Dean’s cock, balance on the head, slide down the shaft, and skim over the heavy weight that rests below. 

Dean inhales—sharp and sensitive. 

Sam sets a rhythm. He kisses Dean, deep and sweet. Like putting on a favorite record and filling the bathtub up.

Submerged in kisses, lulled by their shared electric current, Dean relaxes. Nose to nose. Chest to chest. Dean moans when Sam’s fingers enter him,, Sam sliding a first finger in, gently working past the initial resistance. Without waiting or withholding, Sam grazes over a choice cluster of nerves. 

Dean works through the initial sensations of pain, pressure, and confusion. Should he feel this way? A shard of discomfort threatens to cut him open and pull him away from the present. 

He resists. He fights. He needs air—the air as breathed into him by Sam’s exhale.

_...like a prayer for which no words exist... _

Sam presses a second finger inside, this one massaging in a circular motion until it presses on the exact same spot. A touch more pressure, both fingers working back and forth.

Pleasure makes its overdue appearance.

Relieved, Dean watches his cock bob—lewd in its movements, simultaneously hard and soft to the touch.

This is how he knows himself. A creature of pleasure, vice, greed, and hunger. He’s done feeling guilty about it. Sorry-not-fucking-sorry. Guilt suggests the impending presence of an apology. And he’s never apologizing to anyone for  _ this _ .

“Sam,” Dean pants. “Baby, it ain’t Play-Doh.”

Sam breaks out into laughter. Shoulder-shaking, eyes-scrunched-closed, dimples-on-display laughter.

“Thank you for that,” Sam quips, his hair already a mess. “Mr. Romantic.”

Words with which to snap back quickly dissolve in Dean’s mouth as Sam curls his fingers, changes angles, and applies steady, intense, toe-curling pressure. 

Dean cries out. Columns of muscles throughout his body wind up and snap. Sam keeps at it, fingers circling, massaging, thumping at a brisk pace. Not a minute into this tempo, Sam dips down and wraps his mouth around the leaking, twitching tip of Dean’s cock. 

“Holy fu-u-u-ck—” Dean grits out, biting down on his bottom lip. “Sam!” 

He hits the back of Sam’s throat in record time. 

They each move in a frenzy of friction. Sam’s head bobs. Dean maintains a solid grip on Sam’s hair, tugging, pulling, commanding. 

Time as the rest of the world knows it ceases to exist. Time between the two of them takes over. A reel of fast, slow, fast, slow, more, more, more. Sam lifts his mouth off of Dean with a slick, loud  _ pop _ . 

The comforter moves seemingly of its own accord, without the assistance of anyone’s hands. Waves of the fabric toss up from the sides of their bed, curling against them as Sam slots back into place between Dean’s legs—chest to chest, eye to eye. The comforter wraps itself over the two of them, creating a nest.

_ Safety. _

Sam grinds against Dean. Their cocks form a slip and slide, both erect, both thick and heavy with desire that could and has torn the world apart. 

_ What was the theme in therapy this week? _

It’s the middle of the afternoon.

And in their room.

In their home.

Sam plunges into Dean. 

Relief and satisfaction crush within Dean’s senses, chased by gratifying, delectable pain. His fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder blades, pulling him closer,  _ please, get closer, please. _

Inch by inch, Sam’s cock demands space inside him. He offers it the best way he can—on every concentrated exhale, every squelch of lube, every cry, every buck of his legs wrapped around Sam’s waist.

Sam is all muscle. 

Lean, elegant, solid muscle.

Dean makes him  _ work _ .

Squeeze. Flutter. Compress. Contract. Release. One, two, three—beat. Squeeze. Flutter. Compress. Contract. Release. One, two, three—repeat.

Sam’s mouth forms a perfect  _ O _ , followed by gritted teeth and a growl with a rumble that reverberates against their ribs. Their lips meet. Teeth. Tongue. Traces of spit, sweat, blood.

The current flows both ways.

Sam tilts his hips forward and Dean’s hips back, fucking into Dean until the very last inch.

What was the theme this week?

_...and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for. _

Sam pounds into Dean, an expression of carnal bliss on his face. His hips work as a piston. The mattress begs for its life. The headboard spares no mercy to the wall. The nightstands on either side begin to quake and objects throughout the room start to rattle. 

Dean stretches in body and form. 

He remembers this.

The rare times they’ve switched.

And it just keeps getting better.

He leans into every thrust, every peak, every deep, brutal, resounding thrust. Full. Filling. Filled. 

Dark as smoke, Sam’s voice curls against Dean’s ear. 

“Come for me, Dean.” 

Dean crashes past his tipping point. Clears it. Devastates it. The pressure and tension building up in his hips causes his muscles to contract until…

“Coming!” Dean presses his forehead against Sam’s. “Sammy! Coming! Oh fuck—oh fuck, don’t stop, baby—please, there, there,  _ there—!” _

Sam tosses all rhythm out the window and the tempo accelerates. Time warps. Dean climaxes in a flood, shooting come all over his abdomen and chest, and, on the second spurt, Sam’s large, firm hand. It’s a rush. A dizzying, sensational, intoxicating rush. His cock twitches and swells against the strong grip surrounding it. 

Blitzed, Dean catches every other word of ardent praise from Sam, who, on the edge, tilts Dean’s hips back further and goes to fucking town.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that the bed frame doesn’t collapse. 

One of the nightstands launches towards the ceiling.

Dean extends his left hand and the nightstand freezes in place. Sam comes, ignoring it, without holding back. He comes deep inside Dean—buried, bound, bonded.

An exchange of sloppy, shaky kisses seals the deal.

The nightstand silently touches terra firma once more. Dean makes a mental note to buy some bolts, because he plans on doing this way, way,  _ way _ more often.

He plants a kiss to Sam’s forehead.

One strawberry paleta and one vanilla paleta conveniently float into the room like this is some sort of goddamn sorcerer’s apprentice shit. 

And why not?

“I wanted mango,” Sam grumbles, his head resting on Dean’s chest. 

“I’m not a mindreader,” Dean snickers. He tugs on Sam’s hair. “And hey, you’re  _ welcome _ .”

“You want me to thank  _ you? _ ”

“Yeah. I did the most work.”

“All you did was lie there!”

“Ahem. It was  _ behind _ the scenes work.”

“In my mind, I’m walking away from you.”

“Oh, I’m so scared.”

“Just watch. I’m gonna do it.”

“Go right ahead, Professor.”

“I’m pulling out.”

“About damn time. It’s sticky and sticky means it’s gonna be itchy up in there soon.”

“You are so gross.”

“Just being real, Sammy.”

“Don’t take a bite from mine!”

“Finder’s fee.”

“Oh yeah? Here. I found this.”

“Oh—oh,  _ yuck _ ! Sam! Ugh. That was uncalled for!”

“It’s your own fault. Here. Let me just smear it all over your face. It’s yours, anyway.”

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with come?!”

“Obviously not. Lick it.”

“You lick it!”

“What’s the matter? Two seconds ago you were all,  _ ‘Sam, oh, Sam, make love to me, Sam.’ _ ” 

“Those were  _ not _ my words.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just you wait.”

“Don’t threaten me, I own half this house.”

“No,  _ you  _ own forty-nine percent of this house.  _ I _ own the rest.”

“You do not.”

“I do too. Look it up, ya lawyer.” 

“No.”

“Lazy.”

“A nap sounds great, thanks.”

“Then get off me. And get the blankets off us. This is the world’s worst Hot Pocket.”

“Do you listen to the stuff that comes out of your mouth ever?”

“First, so many jokes I could make there. But also, do  _ you _ ?”

“Hell, I try not to.”

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

“Nothing’s ending.”

“Of course nothing’s ending.”

“Just making sure.”

“Why would it end? Then I’d get stuck washing everything.”

“That’s all you think about?”

“Like you think about better stuff?”

“We’re going to a Romanian Folkloric concert next week.”

“ _ We?” _

“Yeah, you’re my date.”

“Mm, so I have no choice.”

“Of course you do. You can either go with me or you can go with me.”

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“What was the theme of therapy this week?”

Dean flicks Sam’s nose.

Because why not?

“Vulnerability,” Dean chirps. He tosses his paleta stick into the far off distance. “You know, I think you fucked my bad mood out. Thanks.”

“Sure,” Sam scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Any time.”

“Promise?”

Sam smiles and shakes his head. “Yes, Dean, I promise.”

“Who loves you?”

“Mm, I don’t know.”

“Should we do it? For old time’s sake?”

“Why not?  _ But  _ then we shower.”

“I’ll put on some tunes.”

“Please, no more Rush.”

“Fine.”

“And no Kansas!”

“What?!”

“Let’s do it and get this show on the road. Pizza for dinner?”

“Okay, but  _ not  _ from the place you like.”

Sam laughs. “Jerk.”

Dean grins. “Bitch.”

Why not happily ever after?

If there’s a choice, choose happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> my friends. i love y'all. i love you, those who read this from day one. those who just started reading last week. all of y'all have been wonderful to me. this show, these characters, changed my life in ways so profound, words cannot do it justice. 
> 
> i haven't followed canon in years. TCV references canon from time to time, but has branched far and away from it for years. i promise you, me and these knuckleheads will carry on after tonight. (and omg we got bottom dean, what what!!! talk to me about that! i wanna hear what you think!)
> 
> whenever this series does end, i promise you that it won't end like canon. i can certainly promise you that. 
> 
> big shout out to Beta K (you wonderful lady, you!) and C (i love you so much) for their help at god awful hours in the mornings this week to get this out by today. and a shout out to all of those who have beta'ed for me in the past or listened to my inane ramblings about these stories. thank you. <3 
> 
> a huge huge huge thank you to Loch, who entrusted me with details about her family. thank you, loch, for your kindness. i hope i did this justice. <3
> 
> if you enjoy my fics and what i have contributed to fandom, please visit my tumblr page where you can see how to support me outside of AO3. these fic take hours and hours to brainstorm, write first drafts, edits, cry, edit more, and send to my beta. your support allows me to continue doing what i love. thank you. www.compo67.tumblr.com.


End file.
